The Actor, an English hunting jacket draped over his arm, steps over the timber fence and walks across the field toward the oak where the Acrobat sits. The Actor walks up and coughs and the Acrobat, sitting on a crate, facing the stand of trees in the distance, makes a perfunctory motion indicating awareness of a presence, but otherwise remains as he was. The Actor asks what the Acrobat is sitting on. A crate, says the Acrobat, filled with pears. There is a pause before the Actor asks, did you bring the pears? The Acrobat shakes his head. Where did you get the pears? Providence, says the Acrobat.
The Acrobat stands. He turns to face the Actor. There's a look, then a second look. I know your face, says the Acrobat. I know, says the Actor. You were in -, says the Acrobat. I was, says the Actor. You won -, says the Acrobat. I did, says the Actor. You -, says the Acrobat. I will, says the Actor. This goes on for some time, just like this, until the Actor suddenly throws down his hunting jacket, picks up the Acrobat's crate and dashes it against the side of the oak, an explosion of timber, ripe pears, timber, styrofoam packing material falling to rest on the ground under the canopy. I hate pears, says the Actor, and I hate acrobats. Let's select our weapons, suggests the Acrobat. Okay, says the Actor. The Actor decorates the pistol he choses with a red ribbon from his mistress. The Actor is an unabashed sentimentalist.
They take their places, 15 paces apart.
Let me take this last opportunity to say that as a man of artistic inclinations I myself completely understand the demands of craft and for this reason I am not in the least bit offended by your sudden outburst and the destruction of my property and I'll add that frankly I've grown sick of pears and doubt I will ever eat one again in my life.
The Actor is touched by the Acrobat's statement yet affects contempt. (Acting.)
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
